


Strange Circus

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Come Inflation, Face-Fucking, Humiliation, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sticky Sex, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:32:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1979547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently I have two reactions to terrible weeks. Option one: compensate with fluff.  Or...option two, the 'just say fuck it and write whatever hideous darkness you've got in you'.</p>
<p>This is option two.  If tonight goes as badly as I anticipate, chapter 2 will be up soon. Some might consider this very very VERY hard dubcon, but I figured noncon would be a safer warning. </p>
<p>Heed-o the warnings-o and tags-o.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I begin to think that you enjoy being punished, Deadlock."  Turmoil didn't need a face: the smirk carried through his tone of voice, the insolent way he leaned on the wall, arms folded, well enough. "Or else you would learn to stop transgressing."

"It's called fighting a war," Deadlock snarled. Turmoil was in command, Turmoil could order him to show up, but that didn't mean he had to be the simpering weakling Turmoil wanted him to be.  If he was getting punished, he'd make sure he earned it.  

"Against legal military orders?" Turmoil tsked. "Those are called 'war crimes', not 'war'."  He shrugged. "But that is semantics, and not what we are here for."

Deadlock was no good with words, nor this. All he knew was you didn't win a war sitting safely in orbit.  And the only reason he'd shown up here at all is he knew that Turmoil had grounded him, confined him to the ship: his own troops wouldn't follow him, too afraid of facing Turmoil's wrath themselves.

He'd tried. And the failure of that try had only whetted his hostility, so he glared up at Turmoil, face a mask of contempt. "Don't give a slag what you think we're here for."

"Oh, Deadlock, but I made all the preparations...." Another glimmer of his dark humor, large hand splaying across his chassis, as though his feelings were hurt.

For all Deadlock knew, they might have been. Turmoil was soft and weak. He just tossed his head in frustration. "Get it over with."

"Over with. That sounds like this won't be any fun, Deadlock."

"It won't be."

Turmoil gave a coy tilt of his head. "We shall see."

Turmoil moved, faster than anyone his size should be able to, one hand unfolding from around his chassis, sweeping Deadlock aside like mere debris. The smaller mech fell--flew--backwards, landing hard on the ground, the rounded rim of a berth striking under his spaulder with a heavy crunch.  Fine, so that was how it was going to be?

He gathered his legs under him, pushing to rise, but Turmoil was on him already, heaving up his other spaulder with one hand, levering him onto the berth, chuckling at the helpless flail of Deadlock's feet, in off-timed kicks.  

"See?" Turmoil said, driving forward, his hand pressing the spaulder to the berth, so that its back end scraped a long skreeling channel in the berth's surface, "This is fun already."

Deadlock spat, hissing, trying to twist his way out from under Turmoil's weight, pinning him down through that broad hand on his shoulder.  That was the worst part: that Turmoil honestly--as honestly as he did anything--enjoyed this: cruelty, humiliation, power.  Deadlock got his feet under him, bucking up his hips, but all that did was driving him to collide with Turmoil's frame, getting another chuckle from the larger mech.  

Deadlock dropped his frame back down, forcing resignation.  If Turmoil enjoyed his struggle, he simply...wouldn't.  He wouldn't give Turmoil any reaction, any response.

Turmoil lowered closer, one knee pressing between Deadlock's, forcing the dark thighs apart, pushing itself up till it scraped the underside of Deadlock's pelvic armor.  "Not one for foreplay, today?" That almost 'tsk' in his voice again, mocking disappointment.  "That is fine; it has been a while for me, and I don't like to wait."  

Fine. So that's what it was going to be.  Deadlock fought a snort. How...uncreative. He almost expected better--or worse, really--from Turmoil than a simple rape.

Turmoil bared Deadlock's equipment with one efficient swipe, flipping open the hatch cover, thick fingers hard around the thin cover of Deadlock's valve.  Deadlock could feel Turmoil's arousal, the thickening of his EM field, the change in pitch of his base idle.  

Turmoil's spike was already released when he flipped open his own hatch, and he let it hover for a moment there between them, as if to remind Deadlock of the size of it, the girth of the dark member, catching slicked highlights along its lubricated length.  Deadlock felt his valve contract, tensing at the size of it, the memory of the size of it, but he schooled his face to a flinty flatness as he commanded his valve cover to release.  He could feign obedience till it made them both sick, and besides, he could spare himself the pain of a ruptured valve cover, as well as the shame of another visit to the medics for it.  

Turmoil gave a pleased rumble, shifting back, so that his spike rested, just for a moment, along Deadlock's belly, painting him with a sticky line of lubricant as Turmoil slid back, and then forward, seating his spike in Deadlock's valve.  He went slowly, this time, not fast and hard like usual, almost savoring the way Deadlock's calipers shivered and twitched around the sudden intrusion.  

"I apologize," Turmoil said, dripping with insincerity, as he began moving inside Deadlock, slow, careful, almost thought-out thrusts, "that I will not be able to last for long. Why...you might not even overload."

A contemptuous expression rippled over Deadlock's face. What did it matter?  He didn't even want to--the very idea of overloading under Turmoil was repulsive. Doubly so if Turmoil wanted him to.

The thrusts grew harder, deeper, driving in more intensely, Deadlock's unprotesting hips lifting up from the impact. The room filled with the sound of metal on metal, and the slide of lubricant along the valve's mesh, and Turmoil's labored breathing. He shifted his hands, resting both on Deadlock's shoulders, almost forcing the smaller mech to look up, to see his body covered, entirely, overwhelmed by Turmoil's massive shape, blotting out everything in the room, the valve mesh tingling with a charge he didn't want to rise.

Deadlock could feel the other's overload rise, quickly, intensely, the thrusts becoming sharper, though no less calculated, until Turmoil gave a suck of air along his vents, rising up on his knees with the effort of driving his spike deep into the valve, lifting Deadlock's hips almost entirely upright off the berth.  

Deadlock's mask slipped, then, because he felt what Turmoil had been hinting at all along: Turmoil's transfluid tanks were full, and the overload was pulsing hot bursts of the fluid into Deadlock's smaller valve, filling him, stretching the valve's lining, until he could feel it push against his internals.  Held this way, almost upside down, the fluid had nowhere to go, no easy escape oozing out of the valve. Turmoil shifted back, slowly, pulling his still spurting spike out an inch at a time, replacing the spike's volume with fluid, the last of it, one final, weak spurt, spattering down Deadlock's belly.  

Turmoil gave a contented sigh, one hand gripping Deadlock's thigh, holding him there, peering at the filled, aching valve, at the shock and discomfort on the other mech's face.  Deadlock waited for the acerbic comment, the salt of sarcasm that would scrape the raw wound on his ego, but Turmoil reached forward with his other hand, instead, grasping something from the nearby table, and before Deadlock could even guess the shape, he felt something clamp around his valve's rim, a heavy, hermetic seal.  

Turmoil let go of his thigh, letting Deadlock's hips fall back to the berth, almost radiating dark amusement as the motion sloshed the liters of fluid in Deadlock's valve, the conductive fluid teasing over his sensor mesh, tearing a sound like a whimper from Deadlock's vocalizer.

Turmoil reached down to clean off his spike, stowing it neatly, as he spoke. "I had thought," he said, conversationally, "of just using fluid--water or some harmless solvent.  But then the thought occurred to me that, well, every step you take, this next week, every time you move, and that fluid swirls inside you, taunting you with an overload that won't happen, that you would like to know it was from me. I _do_ like the personal touch."

"You can't be--" Deadlock sat up, his spinal struts stiff with outrage, but he couldn't even finish the sentence--the fluid rocked in his valve, and his calipers tried to tighten around it, which just led to squeezing it from one part of his valve to another.  

And it was obvious: Turmoil was serious. And more than that, amused with the idea, enjoying the thought, and enjoying even more the spectacle of that thought become reality.  

A chuff from Turmoil's vents, the self-satisfied sound of someone who had finished a task he took immense pleasure in. "Come back in a week, and we shall see if you've learned enough." 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great part of being a pessimist and expecting the worst from people is the worst that can happen is you get pleasantly surprised. 
> 
> Chapter two, voila. Note the additional tags.

All Deadlock learned in the week was a new level of hatred for Turmoil. It had been a brand new agony to move: every time his weight shifted, the fluid in his valve moved, loose, rolling movements, that were a hot torment to his valve lining, keeping him at the edge of overload, systems trembling with a want that had risen to a need.  

He'd tried taking care of it himself, but whatever that was Turmoil had latched over his valve resisted his attempts to pry it off with a screwdriver. He wasn't going to a medic, not with this, not like this, edgy and irritable from an overload that could not happen. It felt like teetering on the brink of a cliff: he didn't know if he wanted to fall over or back safe, but he was unable to do either, teetering on a hateful, aroused, instability.

He tried to handle it another way, finding a washrack after duty hours, and working his spike with his hands, hoping the fall of cleanser drowned out his desperate moans.  

He could overload,that way, but it felt thin, unsatisfying, turning the heavy need in his valve into a kind of envious ache, craving its own release, as each overload caused it to release its own lubricant, eager and waiting and anticipating,which just swelled the valve even further, and he'd watched the silvery threads of his transfluid was down the drain with a kind of fury, that Turmoil could do this to him, turn want and lust into weapons. 

He'd never been known for a mild temper, but mechs this week learned to positively flee from him, grateful they could outrun his slower, bloated frame.

That was another thing, the filled valve pushing aside his internals, moving against them with every step, pressing against his dermal plating, causing it to bulge out around his pelvic span. It was obvious, visible, and humiliating. He couldn't even transform--his plates were out of alignment.  

And the nights.  

The nights were even worse, trying to recharge when his whole body was alight with desire.  And when he did fall into a fitful rest, he was tormented by memory purges, fantasies of release, of being spiked, endlessly, by huge, heavy spikes, thrusting into him with a brutal abandon.

In the end, he had no choice but to go back to Turmoil, everything he'd schemed and tried to ignore or solve the heavy ache in his loins having failed.  

It didn't sweeten his temper, as he scowled up at the door as it opened.  

" _Almost_ on time," Turmoil said, cheerful. "Clearly, an improvement."

"Would have been on time if I could fraggin' walk normally."  He hated the gingerly little gliding steps he had to take, the way he had to start and stop slowly, trying to keep the fluid in his valve as still as possible.

It was never still enough.

"We can see about fixing that," Turmoil said, gesturing him in. He hesitated, but he'd come this far.  He edged into the room, feeling his valve calipers contract, already, against the slow slosh of fluid. And he knew Turmoil was enjoying it, all of it, feeding on his humiliation and discomfort. He knew Turmoil could see the bulge of his belly, knew it was bigger than before, could guess why. He hated it, all of it.  "On the berth, please. I _am_ rather pressed for time."

No, he wasn't, and Deadlock almost called his bluff on it, but the movement and the squeeze of his valve calipers wanted to push a moan to his vocalizer. He thrust it away, roughly, telling himself if he...obeyed, it would be over. In a few kliks, he could walk normally, he could think straight for the first time in days. He schooled his expression, perching on the edge of the berth.

"Oh, that is hardly going to do it, Deadlock. On your knees." As though Deadlock should have figured that out already.  

It was Turmoil, who fed on degradation: Deadlock probably should have figured it out.

He glowered, sweeping his legs behind him onto the berth, lowering carefully onto his shins.  Turmoil gave a shrug, the kind that said he really should have expected nothing more, and moved around the berth, reaching forward to hook Deadlock’s hip, hauling it back and up.  His other hand popped the catch on Deadlock’s interface hatch. Deadlock forced himself to relax, or tried to. Like this, on hands and knees, the weight of the swollen valve fell right on the base of his spike, forcing it to an uncomfortable pressure. He wanted that fragging thing off his valve, and that meant that yes, Turmoil was going to have to look. And touch.

Turmoil gave an amused hum. “Have we been trying to pry this off?”

“Wouldn’t you?”  Who would want to be stuck like this? Of course he’d tried.  He squeezed his optics shut, bracing, waiting for Turmoil to pry it off, unlatch it, whatever, to get this whole episode over with.

“So very...you,” Turmoil purred, and Deadlock could feel him moving, the heavy tread, and the cool spread of his EM field changing.  He held still, refusing to open his optics, to react, until he felt the sudden cool brush of the degaussers near his face.

Deadlock jerked back, optic shutters snapping open.  Turmoil’s spike, slick and erect, confronted him. He didn’t have to look up to sense the smug satisfaction. A growl bubbled in his throat, but before he could react, he felt a hard hand on one of his helm finials.

“You know,” Turmoil said, as Deadlock gave a gasp from the sudden shock and pain, “These always did strike me as perfect handles.” He took advantage of Deadlock’s pain-opened mouth, shoving his spike roughly in, filling the mouth cavity, pushing past the diaphragm in his throat, pinning his head, unable to move, the spike forcing his head and throat in a straight line.  He could taste the sour tang of Turmoil’s lubricant, tingling and tart against his glossa, the growl that had been in his vocalizer bubbling helplessly around the intrusion.  

Turmoil gripped the other finial, pulling Deadlock’s head against him, then back, faster and faster, so that Deadlock’s mouth and throat rode over the thick shaft, his helm crest striking against Turmoil's belly armor with force enough to almost bring him to seeing stars.  It was vile, humiliating, to be used like this, his mouth taken with force, but what was even worse was what the relentless hard tempo was doing to him.  It sloshed the fluid in his valve around in a ruthless rising tempo, his calipers frantic to try to find something to cling around, and worst of all, it was pounding against his spike's base.  Deadlock could feel his spike try to pressurize in its housing, feel it lubricate, a hot drop or two of transfluid seeping from the tip.

If he could, he'd reach back and free his spike, stroke it till it overloaded, even if it meant giving Turmoil the satisfaction of making him do that, watching him overload at his humiliation, but he didn't have the balance to move his hand. It was all he could do to grip the edges of the berth as Turmoil thrust into his mouth, spike deep in his throat, and try not to gag.  

"Found a better use for your open mouth," Turmoil said, calculatedly vulgar, his own voice tense with the effort of trying to speak. "You should be honored I take so much interest in you. Your valve, your tanks, both full of me."  

Deadlock had about a dozen retorts, but the spike filling his mouth, pinning his glossa down, riding through cavity, and the maddening rocking of the fluid in his valve, pushing him closer and closer to an agonizing overload, so close he could feel his spike dribbling fluid, stole words from him.

Turmoil's belly armor flexed, for a microklik, the only warning Deadlock had before he felt the spike drive in, the hands on his finials yanking him so close that his mouthplates touched the base of the spike, his throat filled with Turmoil's scalding transfluid.  

It wasn't as much as last time, at least, as though that were a consolation, and his throat spasmed around the sudden stillness of the spike, feeling spurt after spurt of the fluid into him. His hips bucked and trembled as the fluid kept moving, a chaos of lost tempo.  

Turmoil released him, abruptly, stepping back and pushing the mouth off his spike, letting Deadlock fall back onto his knees.  

Turmoil tsked. "Such a mess you are, Deadlock."  He gestured down, and Deadlock looked, even as he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, as if he could wipe away the sting of Turmoil's degradation.  His thighs were streaked with silver and lubricant, his spike's betraying testimony to his arousal.  "I did not realize you wanted me that much."

"Want this off of me," Deadlock said, but his voice was a raw sound, clotted in the last of the transfluid in his throat.  

"Of course," Turmoil inclined his head, and swung Deadlock around, one massive hand scooping the smaller mech's belly, heaving his aft up.  Deadlock felt a click, a release, and the cover of the valve snapped off, fluid spilling free. He gave a shudder of relief, even as the fluid, heated from his own body, trickled down his legs.  

Turmoil gave a growl, less civilized than his usual, something feral and possessive, and Deadlock barely had a chance to slap one hand down on the berth before his hips were hauled up, his valve filled with Turmoil's spike, taking him through the week-old fluid, each thrust slapping wetly between them, spattering both of their bodies with the hot messy splashes.  His spike sprang free from its housing, throbbing and erect, jolting with each thrust of Turmoil's against him, until it yielded to the overload, spurting its own release in a silver ribbon, as it was jounced against his belly.  

Turmoil groaned, grinding his hips against Deadlock's, who could feel the shuddering pulse of fresh transfluid into his valve, but this time, spilling around the spike, leaking out of him in long silvery strands.  

Turmoil stayed a moment longer like that, Deadlock's quivering body impaled on his spike, savoring the sight, letting the last ebb of pleasure fade in its own time.

He pushed back, then, unsheathing his spike, releasing one last spill of fluid, leaving the cold air to strike Deadlock's exposed, friction-heated equipment. Deadlock squeezed his optics shut, feeling the last cooling trickle of fluid from his valve, the almost sting of the cool air on his subsiding spike, gulping in air in deep pants.

“I should hope,” Turmoil said, thick with amusement, “that you have perhaps learned a lesson. Though I admit,” He moved over, tossing a cleansing rag pointedly over Deadlock’s stained, messy thighs, the puddles of fluids pooling between them, “part of me would not mind administering this lesson again."


End file.
